The Black Cross Part 9

Kaya retreated slowly to the farther side of the compartment. "Stop,"

she whispered to Velasco. "Don't get angry; don't do anything, it is useless. Come back in the shadow."

Then she turned and faced the official defiantly, throwing up the veil.

Her face was very pale, her eyes were blue and dark, like two pools without a bottom, and her lips pressed together, quivering slightly.

Velasco stared at her for a moment and drew a step nearer, laying his hand on her shoulder. He was trembling with rage.

"Are you satisfied now, you cur?" he cried, "Look at her then. You will never see another face as beautiful, not in the whole length and breadth of your cursed country. Look--while you have the chance! By heaven, whoever you are, chief of the devil himself, I'll report you for this--I'll--"

A shrill whistle cut through the torrent of words, and in another moment the Chief had stepped back, and the under officials came crowding through the door of the compartment.

"Arrest them both," cried the Chief shortly, "Get them away at once and don't let them out of your hands. 'Peter and Paul,' quick! The woman is--" He whispered something hoa.r.s.ely.

In a second the two were surrounded, their hands were chained; they were bound like sheep and dragged, first one, then the other, to a covered sleigh at the rear of the station.

"Put them in--hurry!" cried the Chief, "Gag the fellow; don't let him speak! Is the woman secure, so she can't scream, or moan? Take them off!"

The sleigh started, and the two lay side by side on the floor, jostled by the lurching of the runners, their flesh cut and bruised by the ropes, their mouths parched and panting behind the gags. They could not stir, or moan, or make a sign. They were helpless.

When the sleigh stopped in the grim inner court of the fortress, they were carried out into the darkness, and borne like animals through long, damp pa.s.sages, down innumerable steps and dim windings until finally a door clicked and opened. They were thrust inside, their bindings were cut, and the door clicked again, slamming in its socket with the sickening crash of steel against steel; the sound reverberating hard and metallic like a blow against the eardrum, finally dying away in the distance, echo upon echo until all was silent.

The girl lay still on the floor where they had left her. She had swooned, and as she returned to consciousness slowly, gradually, her breath came in little gasps through her parted lips and she moaned as she lay. Velasco had dragged himself to his knees and was peering about him, feeling with his hands in the dim waning light. He was muttering to himself in little outbursts of anger and rebellion, rocking his arms to and fro.

"What a hole! What a beastly place! The floor is wet; ugh!--The walls are dank and s.h.i.+ny--things are crawling! Good heavens, something ran over my foot!--It must be a rat, scurrying--scampering! Sapristi!

There's another! What a sc.r.a.pe to be in--what a sc.r.a.pe!"

The girl lifted her head and looked at him, straining her eyes for the outline of his shoulders, the ma.s.s of his dark curls. He had turned half away and was wringing his hands, feeling them and exclaiming to himself. She crept towards him and stretched out her hand, touching his shoulder.

"Monsieur--Ah, Monsieur Velasco!"

He shuddered away from her: "You, is it you! Are you alive? I thought you were dead! Mon Dieu, I thought I was shut in with a corpse! It is frightful, horrible! I have suffered! G.o.d, how I have suffered--the torture of the d.a.m.ned!"

"Monsieur!"

"My hands are cut; I know they are cut! Look, can you see,--are they covered with blood? I am sure I feel it trickling!--Look!"

"No--no, Monsieur, there is no blood."

"I tell you I feel it--and my shoulder, my arm--I shall never be able to play again! I am ruined--ruined--and for what? Why did you come to me? Why didn't you go to someone else--anybody?"

"Ah forgive me, forgive me." The girl crept closer and laid her hand on his shoulder, pathetically as if half afraid. "I shouldn't have gone to you, but--listen, Monsieur--let me tell you--let me explain! I thought there was no danger, not for you, otherwise--Oh, do believe me, not for the world would I have done it! I knew you were an artist; Bobo told us you were going to Germany--I thought--Can you ever forgive me?"

Her voice broke a little and she was silent.

Velasco went on rocking himself, feeling his arms, his hands, his fingers at intervals. "Don't talk," he said, "You make me nervous.

You did very wrong; you ought never to have come to me. I hate anarchists; I never could bear them; and now they take me for one! I shall live here all my days--and my Stradivarius, my treasure--Heaven knows where they have put it--lying on the platform of the station, or perhaps broken, or stolen! I shall never see it again, never! Ah, it is cruel--it is not to be borne! Don't speak, I tell you, I can't bear it! You shouldn't have coaxed me!--Ugh! these rats--brr--did you feel it?"

The girl gave a m.u.f.fled cry. She had shrunk away in the corner, but now she crouched forward, her eyes dilated, staring into the darkness.

"A rat, Monsieur? Ah, it is so dark--I feel things, crawling--crawling; and the damp oozes down from the walls. I am frightened--frightened!"

The last words were a whisper; her throat swelled and she was choked, trembling with terror. She put out her hand and touched something soft--it slid from her and ran. She cried out faintly.

"Come here," said Velasco, "Come nearer! The rats won't hurt you.

Rest on my cloak, poor child, are you cold? Where are you?--Let me touch you!"

"Here," said the girl, "I can feel the edge of your cloak; don't put it around me--no! I deserve to suffer, but you--no wonder you hate me!

Don't put it around me."

"Come nearer," said Velasco, "I can't see you in this devilish darkness. Are you crying?"

"No, Monsieur, no, let me tell you--it was your playing, your playing that night. I saw you, and then the thought came to me--I will go to him, he will help me; and then--I came."

"Your teeth click together like a castanet rattling," said Velasco, "You tremble like a string under the bow. Come closer. There--one ran over my sleeve, curse the creature! Did you feel him, the vermin? Put my cloak close around you."

"No--no--not your cloak! You are s.h.i.+vering yourself, you need it.

Don't--I pray you!"

There was a moment of silent struggle between them.

"Keep still," said Velasco, "My hands are cut, but they are strong still, and yours are like wax, soft as rose leaves. Hold it around you; don't push it away. Now, lean against me; they won't touch you."

The struggle continued for a moment; then the form of the girl relaxed, her head drooped and he felt the light rings of her hair brus.h.i.+ng his cheek. She started and then sank back again.

"Can you hear me?" said Velasco, "Perhaps there are spies, people listening; no one can tell. Put your lips to my ear. Why were we arrested, do you know? What have you done?--Ah, these rats! Make a noise with your feet; scuffle as I do, that will drive them away.--"

"I--I can't tell you," whispered the girl, "No--it was nothing, don't ask me. You will know in the morning."

"Tell me now," said Velasco, "When we talk, the darkness seems less, not so terrible. I like to feel you breathing against me; your form is so little and light. Don't move! Put your fingers in mine now and tell me.--Why won't you tell me?--Speak louder."

The girl trembled and he put his arm closer about her.

"Are you afraid of me?" he said, "My tempers are nothing; they are like a gust and it is over. I didn't mean what I said. When I think of my violin, that it is lost, gone forever perhaps, that my hands are so numb and so stiff, it makes me frantic. I feel as if I should go mad for a moment, locked in here; and I never could bear the dark, never; not when I was a child. I see things; sounds ring in my ears. I want to cry out, and storm, and fling myself against the walls; do you? It is my nature, my temperament, I was always like that. My nerves are on fire. Stay by me. When I feel your hand--Kaya, your hair is like silk. Don't move. What was it you did?"

"Only what was just," breathed the girl, "and right. I could not help myself, I could not. I had taken the oath. I was only the instrument."

"The what--?" said Velasco. "If you were an instrument I should take you in my arms and play on you. The strings would be the strands of your hair and my bow would caress them. The tones would be thrilling and soft like your voice; your cheek would be the arch on which my cheek rests. I would shut my eyes and play on you, and you would answer me, and we would sway together, your heart on my breast.--Ah!

Where am I? Forgive me, I thought for a moment--Don't be frightened, I thought you were my Stradivarius. I was dreaming.--What were you saying? An instrument--I don't understand."

"Let me go," cried the girl, "don't hold me! Take your cloak from my shoulders. You wouldn't understand if I did tell you. You are an artist and understand nothing but your art. What do you know of the conditions we are struggling against, the suffering, the horrible suffering of our country?"

"Don't be angry," said Velasco, "I talk to my violin sometimes like that. There was nothing to flare up about; I was dreaming, I tell you!

What do you know of such things yourself? Ugh! Leave them alone, child; leave all ugly things alone! Come back, or the rats will run over you."

"It is terrible the things that happen," whispered the girl. She was on her knees and she was pus.h.i.+ng him away with her hands. "I never knew until lately, but now--now I have met the Revolutionists; they have talked to me, they have told me. They are splendid men. Some of them are extreme, so am I. I hate the Tsar. I loathe him; I loathe them all! I would kill them all if I could."

She was trembling violently: "It is true that I have--" And then she began sobbing, struggling with Velasco as he drew her to him.

"Be still," he said, "Hus.h.!.+ Your voice was like a trumpet then. You are not like a girl at all; you are like a soldier fighting for his flag. What are you talking about? Hus.h.!.+ Let me wrap you again. The rats are getting worse! Creep closer and rest on my arm. The Tsar is the little Father; we must respect him and speak low about him always."